


o felix culpa

by starscry



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Canon Compliant, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Long Journeys, M/M, Rating will change, connected oneshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2018-12-03 12:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11532354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starscry/pseuds/starscry
Summary: The series of bad decisions, unfortunate blunders, and unlucky accidents that, by some means, manages to bring Trevor Belmont happiness.





	1. Chapter 1

“ _Christ_ , would you be a little more careful with that thing? Watch where you’re sticking it!”

“Perhaps if you would stop squirming, this entire process would be less painful for the both of us.”

“Fuck, that _hurts!_ ”

“The next time you move, Belmont, I will stick this needle someplace _far_ more painful than where it is right now.”

Trevor heaves a sullen sigh, wincing as Alucard pulls the needle’s sharp tip through his skin once more and ties the suture closed with steady, careful fingers. Another wipe of the alcohol-soaked rag over the area to clean off the blood that wells up makes the wound _sting_ , and Trevor can’t help his involuntary flinch, much to Alucard’s chagrin. 

In hindsight, he thinks, perhaps charging into a flock of enemies alone while Sypha and Alucard were busy fighting their own battles wasn’t his brightest idea. Trevor certainly would never have done so if he had known he would end up sitting on freezing cobblestones in some shitty Gresit alleyway, arm balanced on Sypha’s steady shoulder as Alucard stitches up the nasty gash that gapes open on Trevor’s side, a testament to his moment of idiocy. Coming from a family of hunters and having grown up fighting, Trevor has endured his fair share of scrapes and grown used to the scars that litter his body; the process of having himself sewn back together to stave off infection, however, he doubts he will ever acclimate to. He doubts _anyone_ , even the hardiest of warriors, could ever adjust to a needle pricking an open wound. The twin sensations of the needle’s sharp bite and the line being drawn through his skin and tied time and time again are unsettling, and Alucard’s seemingly-permanent scowl at his every bodily movement is most definitely _not_ helping the situation at all.

“You keep glaring, your face will – _Jesus, vampire!_ ” he yelps as the line is _yanked_ through his skin, the self-satisfied little smirk on Alucard’s face an indicator that it was decidedly not an accident. 

“If you would stop being so insufferable, this entire process would go quicker,” Alucard replies, dabbing at the blood on the gash once more.

Sypha grabs the hand that’s slung around her shoulder, fingers wrapped around Trevor’s. “Squeeze my hand if it hurts, instead of moving. Let him work in peace.”

“Wouldn’t want to break your fingers,” Trevor replies, giving her a good-natured, if slightly pained, grin.

“Please,” Sypha deadpans, rolling her eyes. “I am far sturdier than I look.”

“Don’t I know it. I was half convinced you were going to crisp me when you started slinging fire at that mob. Hell of a lot stronger than any Speaker I’ve ever met.”

“Do not forget that,” she replies. “Now, stop flinching.” From the corner of his eye, Trevor can see her quietly beaming at the compliment. 

He opens his mouth to make a smart-ass remark, but his words turn into yet another litany of _ow, ow, ow_ as Alucard carefully pulls the edges of the wound back just a bit with his nails, inspecting the gash with keen eyes. 

“The fiend’s claws cut deep, but, thankfully, did not nick anything of import. Luck was on your side, Belmont.”

“Didn’t nick anything important, aside from my bloody fuckin’ body, you mean?”

“I suppose our definitions of ‘important’ must differ,” Alucard replies airily. To Trevor’s side, Sypha lets out a snort of laughter that she attempts to disguise as a cough in the crook of her elbow. _Bastards, the lot_ , he thinks, scowling at the both of them.

Trevor clenches Sypha’s hand in his, doing his best to keep himself still as Alucard suddenly lets his skin go and douses the rag in more alcohol, pressing it to the wound to ensure the area stays sterilized. He bites down on his lower lip to keep himself from reciting every colorful curse in his repertoire for the second or fourth time, only serving to further his own pain as his teeth dig directly into the split he’d managed to receive during the fight. The bitter taste of blood fills his mouth and Trevor’s face scrunches in pain, wanting nothing more than for this entire ordeal to be over so he can saunter off to the nearest tavern and drink away the pain.

Trevor eyes the half-empty bottle of brandy resting at Alucard’s, and a snort from Sypha tells him she’s already two steps ahead of his thought process. “Don’t even think about it,” she tells him, meeting his disappointed gaze.

“Why’s he get to rub it all on me?” Trevor huffs. “Come on, you two. Have some heart. Spare a wounded man a sip.”

“If you quit your incessant complaining, I will _personally_ purchase you a pint at the nearest bar,” Alucard says dryly, threading the line through the gash and tying off another stitch. 

_That_ piques Trevor’s interest. “A whole pint? Of anything I want?”

“Whatever you so desire.” The vampire then nods at Sypha. “And you as well, for aiding me.”

Trevor grins, mentally rubbing his hands together. His funds have been running.. low, as of late, considering his family’s situation and all of the coin he went through hopping from tavern to tavern just to reach Gresit. Any ale that doesn’t taste like watered-down pigpiss would be a godsend at this point. “You’ve got yourself a deal, vampire,” he replies. “My lips are sealed.”

“Words I thought I would never hear,” Alucard mumbles, eyes narrowed as he focuses on cleanly sewing Trevor’s skin back together. 

Trevor bites back a retort and instead focuses on stilling himself and gripping Sypha’s hand tightly in his own as Alucard makes quick work of the rest of the stitches, the tip of his tongue peeking from between his lips as he concentrates in a way that’s oddly endearing and human. He’s surprised by just how precise and practiced the vampire’s movements are, like he’s done this several times before. Alucard, as always, continues to be an enigma to him.

“Where’d you learn to do this?” Trevor asks when Alucard finally ties off the final suture, biting the end of the thread with sharp teeth to cut it.

“My mother. Healing others was her life’s work.”

“And she bothered to teach you her trade? Seems a waste, considering your abilities.”

“I’m sure you’ll be thanking her for teaching me when your wound heals cleanly,” Alucard snorts. He takes the small, wooden bowl resting beside his feet and swipes two fingers through the mixture inside it. “This is just a salve of yarrow, sage, and comfrey, to aid the healing process and keep the wound from becoming inflamed,” he explains, rubbing cool, gentle fingers over the stitched-up gash on Trevor’s side. Trevor shivers involuntarily at the sensation; the salve is not entirely unpleasant, leaving an odd, tingling sensation that lingers on the wound. 

Setting the bowl aside and picking up a roll of linen bandages, Alucard continues, “My mother taught me to heal because she saw value in each individual’s life. Though I had little need for her practices to tend my own wounds, she wanted me to be able to assist any that might require it.” Holding one end of the bandages against Trevor’s skin, he rolls the rest around the hunter’s torso several times, fitting them snugly enough to keep the wound protected. 

“She loved humans,” the vampire murmurs, a bitter edge to his voice. “Even with her dying breath, she refused to curse those that had betrayed her.”

“A better woman than any of us could hope to be,” Sypha says, wistful. Trevor nods his agreement.

Tying off the ends of the bandages, Alucard puts his tools aside and sits back to examine his handiwork on Trevor’s body. “What’s done is done,” he replies coolly. “All I can do now is honor her memory and her wishes by doing as she would have.”

Trevor raises his arm above his head, testing the give of the stitches by tugging them a little bit. Alucard stares at him, irritation written all over his face. 

“If you tear my stitches, Belmont, I _will_ have Sypha cauterize the wound closed, so I suggest you refrain from doing anything foolish. I know how difficult that will be for you, but I have at least a modicum of faith that you can manage it.”

Beside him, Sypha teasingly flicks a small flame to the tip of her fingers that dances wildly in the breeze, a grin upon her lips. The thought of his wound being burnt closed makes him grimace, and he slowly drops his arm to his side, leaving the stitches be. 

“Is it time to go to the bar, yet?” Trevor mumbles, pulling his shirt back over his head and frowning at the tear in the fabric where the beast’s claws had sliced through him. He’ll have to have Alucard put his fancy needlework to fixing it later, he thinks. 

“Let me look at this, first.” Alucard leans forward, face hovering just in front of Trevor’s. He brushes dark strands of hair aside, tucking them behind Trevor’s ears and peering at the cut on his lip with sharp eyes. Warm breath ghosts over his skin, and soft hands cup his cheeks, turning his face from side to side. “It doesn’t look too deep,” the vampire murmurs, brushing his thumb over a droplet of blood that wells up to the surface of Trevor’s lip, the pad of his finger cool and soft and _god_ could his body _stop_ with the shivers?

Alucard considers the drop of crimson on his finger for a moment before putting it to his lips and licking it off his skin. Trevor’s breath chokes in his throat, repulsion and intrigue and an odd feeling of _thrill_ shooting through his being all at once at the thought of a vampire drinking any amount of Belmont blood.

“That should heal on its own, but keep an eye on it. Any open wound is a potential breeding ground for infection.” He pulls a face, lip tugged upward and sharp teeth flashing in disgust. “And, perhaps, consider drinking less and eating more substantial food. Your blood tastes positively _revolting_.”

Trevor bristles, leaning back from Alucard and crossing his arms defensively over his chest. “I don’t recall inviting you to take a taste.”

“Yes, well,” Alucard replies, standing and dusting the tails of his coat off, “I suppose you’ll never have to fear any others of my kind drinking from you if your blood continues to taste like _that_.”

Trevor scowls at the comment and tries to ignore Sypha’s traitorous snicker because, really, is today just Shit on Trevor Belmont Day for the both of them? He huffs, pulling his cloak up around his shoulders and fixing his weapons back upon his person. “I need a drink,” Trevor grouses. “I need _several_ drinks, and you–” he jabs an accusatory finger into Alucard’s chest “–are going to pay for each one of them.” 

“I am a man of my word,” Alucard replies. 

“You are going to continue poisoning your blood, Belmont?” Sypha chirps, smirk dancing upon her lips.

“Oh, fuck off. The both of you.” Trevor heaves an annoyed sigh and kicks a stray rock down the alleyway. 

“Too bad. You are stuck with us,” Sypha replies cheerily. 

He swipes his tongue over the cut on his bottom lip, the feeling of the vampire’s cool thumb still lingering there; Trevor idly wonders what he did to deserve getting wrapped up in this hot fucking mess off a prophecy.


	2. Chapter 2

The night before they’re due to set out and journey to Dracula’s castle, Trevor makes blissful drunkenness his singular goal. 

With Sypha leaving them, the Speakers decide to gather in a local tavern for one last hurrah together before she ventures off into the unknown. They’re a merry little band when not concerned with matters of life and death, and Trevor finds himself amused by their tipsy antics. Even the Elder, he notes, bears the telltale flush of liquor on his cheeks and a smile upon his lips as he twirls Sypha around the space that’s been cleared to create a makeshift dancefloor. A few of the locals had brought out fiddles and tambourines some time ago; everyone seems so absurdly _happy_ , Trevor thinks as he listens to the music and the rhythmic clapping and stomping and singing that accompanies it, staring sullenly at the ring of grinning faces circled around dancing couples. Almost as if they’ve forgotten about the horrors that await them beyond the city walls and the fact that Sypha will be walking into almost certain death come sunrise.

Trevor drinks and does his best to ignore the happiness that permeates throughout the tavern, sliding coin after coin across the counter to the bartender in exchange for dark bottles of ale that sate his need and provide him the solace he craves. It’s a shame, really, that he can’t bum money off Alucard for free drinks, this time. He’d love to drink the vampire’s coffers dry. When he can’t stand being inside any longer, Trevor seizes a bottle and stumbles into the bitter snow. 

Winter nights in Wallachia bring with them a creeping coldness – the sort that begins slowly, raising goosebumps on bared patches of skin, numbing the tips of ears and noses, setting teeth chattering; it slips, barely noticed, beneath clothes and into boots and gloves, paling bodies to waxy whites and blues and spiriting away the warmth of the flesh until it renders its victims helpless, grasping for any bit of heat they can find as they are consumed by the bitter, unforgiving chill. Trevor has seen his share of the bodies. Eyes glazed over and lips frozen blue, frostbitten fingers blackened and rotting like gnarled branches of driftwood, curled in upon themselves in death as though they still clung to the guttering flame of their life’s warmth. The beggars of the streets and foolish travellers snapped up in the maws of blizzards, iced-over corpses left to thaw on the roadside and in the gutters to be spared only pitiful glances by passersby. The forgotten of winter. 

Trevor might be drunk, but he’s nowhere near drunk enough to venture outside without the protection provided by his cloak; even the pleasant warmth of liquor can’t hold back the bone-deep chill, and he’s more than familiar with the consequences of stupidity in the winter. Thankfully, there is no howling wind tonight, no icy breeze that whips his hair and stings his cheeks until they’re raw and red. Around him, the world is still – an odd serenity, like a breath momentarily held before they set out on the morrow. Fresh snow blankets the ground in white, pure and untrodden. For once, Gresit seems calm.

He leans against the tavern’s outside and sips from his bottle of ale and listens to the faint music that flows from within, bawdy melody accompanied by laughter and slurred voices. Being in there, surrounded by Speakers and townsfolk clinging tight to a single night’s happy revelry before they wake up in the hell of tomorrow.. he feels incredibly out-of-place. The years have accustomed him to drinking alone in dingy bars until he’s thrown out on his drunken ass in the early hours of the morning, and being welcomed by those around him and beckoned into a world of dance and song and festivities is an unfamiliar sensation. Despite protests made by Sypha and the Elder, Trevor finds it far more comfortable to sit outside in the quiet night. Alone. 

The peace is relatively enjoyable, and he’s made good headway into his newly-procured bottle of ale when the sound of snow crunching underfoot catches his attention. Trevor looks up, expecting to see Sypha or another one of the Speakers, but is instead greeted with a sight he’s less keen on.

Alucard sits down next to him wordlessly, looking so oddly out-of-place amidst the silent winter surrounding them. Tiny flakes of snow flit down from the clouds above them, settling in the vampire’s hair and catching the glow of light coming from the tavern doorway. The snow gives him a halo, Trevor thinks offhandedly. A halo like those behind the heads of every stained glass saint immortalized in the great cathedrals of Wallachia, like the corona that frames the face of Michael in the church he and his family used to attend, the archangel’s glass form frozen in the sliver of time just before he is to carry out his Biblical duty and slice his sword through the serpent below his feet, displayed proudly above the altar amidst panels of Gabriel and Raphael that Trevor would stare up at every Sunday as he played the part of the good little Catholic and recited his _Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem, factorem caeli et terrae, visibilium omnium et invisibilium_. Alucard looks the part of the saintly monster. Ethereal. _Beautiful,_ a small voice in the depths of Trevor’s clouded mind whispers.

 _Christ, I’m drunk_ , Trevor thinks. He puts the bottle to his lips and takes another drink. For good measure. 

Alucard has a glass in his hand that’s filled with a dark vintage; he takes a sip, and Trevor’s lip curls at the way it almost looks as if he’s drinking blood. 

“Didn’t know your kind drank anything other than what comes out of humans,” Trevor comments. 

“I enjoy a glass of wine every now and then. It’s far more difficult for me to get drunk than it is for you, so the liquor has little effect on me in so small a quantity.”

“Doesn’t sound like much fun.”

“I’d almost forgotten that your idea of _fun_ is drinking yourself into a stupor.”

Trevor shoots him a glare. “So, what? You come out here to make a nuisance of yourself?”

“I simply wanted to enjoy the night with a bit of company. Watching you squirm is an additional boon,” Alucard replies, a wry smile upon his lips. 

Trevor takes a pointed sip from his bottle and resists the rather compelling urge to throw it at Alucard and tell him to fuck off. He can feel the vampire’s gaze on him, those unnerving golden eyes watching him; the sensation sends a tiny shiver down his back. 

“How about a toast?” Alucard asks after a few moments’ silence, raising his glass and nodding at Trevor.

“To what? We’re marching to our deaths, come tomorrow.”

“To saving Wallachia, and her people. To doing right by our parents’ wishes.”

“Cheers, then,” Trevor mumbles, clinking his bottle halfheartedly against Alucard’s drink. “To our imminent demise. And to all those in this godforsaken land that won’t miss us when we’re gone.”

Holding the neck of the bottle in his fist, Trevor tips it up to his lips and takes a long draw of ale, pulling a face at the sour taste and the burn of liquor slipping down his throat. “Last of the Belmont line and Dracula’s only son, going down fighting together,” he mutters and wipes his mouth with a shirtsleeve. “A shame none will remember us. Just another sad statistic for the history books; a few more added to the body count.”

“You seem rather cynical tonight. Moreso than normal.”

Trevor snorts. “Blame it on the drink, I suppose,” he replies, staring at the dark alcohol collected in the bottom of his bottle and swirling it around absentmindedly. “Tends to make me realize just how deep the holes I’ve dug myself are.”

“Have some faith in your abilities, Belmont. In all of ours.”

“Faith?” Trevor meets Alucard’s golden gaze, sneering. “I may have been raised a hunter, but none of my training could _ever_ prepare me to face the strength of Hell itself. You’re his spawn. You know the limits of his abilities. Tell me, how much faith do you have that we will succeed?”

Alucard looks away, staring down at the snow blanketing the ground below them and scuffing a boot in it. He lets out a steady sigh, and Trevor watches his breath curl from between his lips, a faint mist against the darkness.

“More faith than you seem to have,” Alucard replies after a moment of contemplative silence, face impassive. “It will be difficult. Exceedingly so. But.. we have a chance.”

“A chance,” Trevor echoes, lip curled. “We’re staking our lives on a gamble, then.”

“If a chance is all we have, we must seize it. For Wallachia, and for every innocent soul my father intends to persecute in his blind rampage.” 

“You believe them innocent? Even though so many of those God-fearing, Church-bred bastards were complicit in the death of your mother?”

Alucard doesn’t answer him right away. Trevor can’t read the vampire’s face as he puts his glass to his lips and takes a long drink of the wine left in it, finishing the spirit inside until nothing but rose-tinted dregs pool in the bottom. 

“What I believe does not matter,” he murmurs. “The deed has been done; nothing can change that. All I can do now is what my mother would have wanted. And I know she would have wanted me to be.. better. Better than them.”

“How noble,” Trevor replies dryly. “If I were in your position, I’d have fucked off out of Wallachia ages ago and left their corpses to rot.”

Alucard crosses his arms over his chest, and Trevor can faintly see goosebumps rising over the skin bared by the low cut of his shirt. Even vampires, it seems, are not immune to winter’s chill. 

The other man studies him, a single prim brow raised. “I doubt you would have,” he says evenly. “Maintain your absurd, apathetic façade all you like, Belmont; I know that you will always ending up fighting for what is right.”

“You know nothing about me, _vampire_ ,” Trevor spits, the word rolling off his tongue like a curse. “Don’t pretend otherwise.”

“I know of your house. Your people. The Belmont name carries weight, and your family’s deeds are known to all in this land.”

Trevor snorts and takes a swig of ale. “ _Used_ to carry weight. Nowadays, ‘Belmont’ is more synonymous with ‘black magic’ than anything else. What respect we once had is gone.”

“And yet, despite all that your family has endured at the hands of the Church, you still intend to fight in the name of those responsible for your suffering?”

“I fight in the name of my family, and I fight because it is my duty as a Belmont to do so.” He tilts his head back, gazing up at the flakes of snow drifting slowly overhead, tiny specks that catch the tavern’s glow and wink back at him with light. “Saving people, slaying Dracula to put an end to this madness.. it’s what my parents would have wanted. Slaves to our family’s wishes, and all.”

Alucard drums the tips of his fingernails against the emptied glass in his hand, soft _clinks_ echoing around them. “We are not so different, you and I.”

“I save people; you eat them. I’d say that’s quite a difference, wouldn’t you?”

The vampire’s eyes flick over to meet his, deadpan. “Must you make a joke of everything, Belmont?”

“Humor is one of the few things I have left to take my mind off the inevitability of my own demise, so.. yes.”

“I suppose we differ there, as well,” Alucard replies dryly, eyes rolling. “But I digress; though I’m sure you enjoy pretending otherwise, we are, regardless, cut from the same cloth. Perhaps it is why fate has chosen to throw us together.”

“And what cloth might that be? Last I checked, we were raised to be enemies.”

“Our lives, our families, torn apart in the name of their God. Yet, we two have persevered. To fight.”

Trevor’s fingers clench around the neck of his bottle, and the muscles in his jaw work as he clenches his teeth in anger. The idea that his life, his circumstances, everything that has happened to him are similar in any way to a _monster’s_ , similar to a being that embodies everything he’d been raised to hate and slay – it’s absolutely asinine. 

He laughs dryly. Humorless. “You think that because we’ve both been persecuted by the Church, we’re suddenly the same? As if that is some sort of.. grounds for friendship?” Trevor shakes his head and scowls. “Do you know what it’s like, to be ripped from your bed in the middle of the night by men of the cloth? To be held down and – and forced to _watch_ as they beat your parents, your brothers and sisters – even the youngest ones, the _children_ , calling them _sinners_ and _devilspawn_ all the while? Have you ever seen a priest throw a torch at the feet of your screaming mother and pray the _Pater noster_ to his fucking God while your entire _life_ burned to the ground, vampire?”

Trevor’s hands are shaking, now. The alcohol amplifies his anger, but he doesn’t care; all he can think about is that night, the smell of burning flesh and singed hair and the screams – god, the _screams_ – and sitting in the ruins of the house after the flames had flickered out, ash falling like snow from the sky and settling on bones charred to near nothingness. He puts the bottle to his lips and finishes the rest of the liquor inside. It’s the only medicine that numbs the pain, stifles the memories, if only for a few hours. 

Alucard looks at him, and he meets the vampire’s eyes testily. “We’re nothing alike,” Trevor snaps. “I don’t even have a fancy fucking coffin left to my name. I have _nothing_ , nothing but the clothes on my back and the weapons at my side. Last son of the Belmont family, left alive as little more than an example for the good Catholics of Wallachia. Do you know _anything_ of what my life has been like?”

A silence stretches between them, Alucard looking away, eyes glassy and fingers curled upon his thighs. The vampire clutches his coat tighter around himself, and Trevor can see the frown that tugs the corners of his lips down, the furrow between his brows. 

“Thought not,” Trevor snorts, tossing his bottle aside and moving to get up and make for the bar so he can drown his sorrows in more alcohol. A hand wraps around his wrist, iron grip holding him in place. Sharp golden eyes meet his.

“I do know,” Alucard murmurs, voice hard. “By the time I received word of my mother’s arrest and returned to Targoviste, she was little more than bones and ash. Our home, torched to rubble. And, come tomorrow, we set out to slay my father.”

The hand around Trevor’s wrist loosens and falls away, but Alucard’s eyes do not leave his. “I know what it is like, Belmont,” he says, “to lose everything. You are not the only one who has suffered.”

Trevor stares down at him and, for the first time since the vampire’s awakening, sees sadness twist Alucard’s features. It’s the same look of exhausted grief Trevor knows he himself has worn since his family’s fall, gaze empty with no tears left to shed. Alucard’s typical bravado is gone, replaced by a hollow expression Trevor knows all too well; seeing familiar emotions reflected back at him on the vampire’s face twists a dagger deep in his gut, and Trevor’s hands white-knuckle at his sides. 

“I suppose we’re not.. so different,” Trevor mumbles. He tears his gaze away from Alucard’s and stares at the light filtering through the cracks in the tavern’s door. “I need a drink.”

Alucard says nothing in return, not deigning to chide him or continue their conversation, which Trevor is grateful for. The bartender is all too happy to provide Trevor with as many bottles of ale as he wants after seeing the amount of coin spilled on the counter before him, and Trevor is all too happy to sit alone and drink. And drink. And drink, until the visions of burning corpses that plague his mind dissipate and everything is pleasant and spinning.

Later, in the dwindling hours of the night when the tavern has cleared out and the sensible have left for the comfort of their beds, a familiar presence lingers by Trevor’s side. He’s too many pints of ale deep in his drunken stupor, and the world around him is a blur, mind bleary and limbs weighed down by the liquor. When he stumbles outside in only his tunic clutching the neck of a near-empty bottle and falls to his hands and knees, emptying his guts upon the ground and keeling over into the freezing snow, a pair of cold, gentle hands brush back the hair clinging to his sweating forehead, haul him upward, wrap the comforting furred ruff of his cloak around his shoulders. Steady arms are there to guide him up the stairs of the inn and back to his room, step-by-step. Though his head spins and he can scarcely keep his eyes open, Trevor catches glimpses of pale skin and feels his boots being slid off his feet and his sword sheath and daggers and whip being unbuckled from around his waist and set upon the bedside table. Warmth envelops his body as blankets and furs are pulled up to his shoulders. When Trevor reaches a hand out to thread his fingers through the golden hair that dangles above him, inhibitions lost in his drunken haze, a single word slips from his traitorous lips. _Beautiful._

Fingers wrap around his, holding Trevor’s hand in place for several heartbeats before bringing it down to rest upon his own chest.

“Rest well, Belmont,” Alucard whispers. 

A breath, and the wick of the candle illuminating the room flickers out into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all of your kudos and kind comments! more is on the way soon.
> 
> [here's a bit of mood music for this chapter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dPJLu_wcTKc) if you're so inclined


	3. Chapter 3

The blizzard arrives quickly several days into their journey, temperatures plummeting and winds roaring with such force Trevor can hardly see more than ten feet in front of him. The road they walk seems to stretch on endlessly, and as he trudges through the thick snow and clutches his cloak tight around himself, he feels the cold creep into every crevice of his clothing and coil tight around him like a frigid snake. 

“There should be a town just up ahead,” Alucard shouts over the wailing wind, pointing a gloved finger at something in the distance that Trevor can’t make out. “Just past the river.”

Hearing the words _town_ and _just ahead_ feels like fresh relief to Trevor, so he follows dutifully behind as Alucard leads the way and prays that they get out of this fucking storm _soon_. More walking for what seems like _eons_ brings them to a bridge that looks as if it’s been demolished for some time, some snowy planks splintered into pieces and scattered about on the frosty banks; the rest are nowhere to be found, likely lost in the river’s depths.

“Looks like we’ll have to cross the ice. Think it’ll hold?” Trevor asks.

Sypha tests a boot on the edge of the frozen river, then takes a few steps wholly onto it. “Feels thick enough, I think,” she calls back to them.

“Lead the way,” Trevor says, jerking his head at Alucard. The vampire nods and steps out onto the ice, holding an arm up to ward off the snow being blown in his face as he guides their small party across the frozen water.

Over the howling wind and the gusts of snow being blown into their faces, the warning sounds are inaudible, the signs nearly invisible; small cracks appear, first, spiderwebbing beneath their feet and feeding into larger fractures in the ice. Every step taken is heavy, laborious, and their combined weight as they ford the river into the blizzard’s heavy headwinds proves too much. A dangerously familiar sound, one Trevor knows from winter’s segue into early spring when the floes that freeze the lake near the Belmont estate begin to break with rising temperatures, echoes through the air – like the snap of a longbow’s string that has been drawn taut and released, the distinctive noise of ice splitting resonates beneath them.

Sypha and Alucard, always quick-witted, barely have enough time to lighten themselves with their respective magics before they fall through; Trevor, always unlucky, barely has enough time to register what is happening before he’s plummeted into freezing water.

\- - 

Trevor can feel the water freeze to a light film of ice in his hair and the edges of his cloak frost over, chafing against his quickly-paling skin. Being in the water had been cold enough, but as soon as Sypha and Alucard had hauled him out, the real chill had begun to set in. The blizzard whips his cheeks and nose raw, unforgiving winds wailing in his ears and drowning out whatever words Sypha and Alucard say to him; he stares mutely at their moving lips and focuses on trudging through the shin-deep snow, each step colder than the last. Every time he stumbles over his own frozen feet and collapses into the snow, he's hauled up by strong arms and nudged onward, despite his body's pleas to stop and give in to winter's cruel embrace.

By the time they make it to the small village plotted as their next destination on the map, he can barely stand upright on his own. Alucard holds him up, one hand pulling Trevor's arm around his neck and the other keeping a firm grip on his waist as Sypha struggles to maintain a flickering ball of flame to light the way in the twilight that yawns on before them. Even through the snow, Trevor can see that the village has been abandoned. Caved-in roofs and scorched ruins are more abundant than intact houses, and the stiff blue bodies that litter the area, mouths frozen open in silent screams and skin blackened with frost rot and blood, are a gruesome testament to decimation by Dracula's night horde. Alucard follows Sypha's lead, hauling Trevor along to the first unscathed building they find.

Parapets border the edges of a looming pinnacle above from which a single, solitary bell hangs, and snow-dusted stone gargoyles regard them silently with bared teeth and mouths frozen open in snarls, perched on either side of a large brazen cross that hangs just over a door barely hanging on by a single hinge. Trevor blinks flakes of frost from his eyes and scowls at the sight; everything in his life, it seems, always has to come back to the fucking _church_.

"Are you sure you can set foot in there?" he calls to Alucard over the wind's cries. "God's house, 'n all."

"It would seem God abandoned this village long ago," Alucard replies.

"Shame. Would've been entertaining to see you burst into flames."

"If you continue your useless blathering instead of conserving your strength, I doubt you will live to do so."

Trevor staggers inside and immediately collapses against the nearest wall in a little alcove beside a bye-altar that houses rows of unlit prayer candles, only to discover that the warm relief he so desperately desires is nowhere to be found. Instead, cold stone meets his hands, and his breath curls from his lips and lingers in the air, a small, foggy cloud in front of his face. The thick wall of ice Sypha erects in the doorway to keep night creatures and the unrelenting blizzard out dims the sound of the winds outside, and Trevor becomes aware of just how much he's shivering, his sword's sheath and whip’s hilt clattering against the ground with every tremble of his body and the chattering of his teeth reverberating in his skull.

He attempts to take his mind off the bitter cold by glancing around the abandoned church. It’s relatively small - nowhere near as grandiose as the great cathedrals and other houses of worship of the larger Wallachian cities, ornate seats fit for corrupt bishops and monsignors to sell their indulgences and fearmonger the masses from. There is little of the gold embellishment and other decadence Trevor is accustomed to; it’s definitely a village church, he thinks, and the most ostentatious things inside are the elaborately-wrought silver crucifix that hangs on the chancel wall just behind the altar and the stained glass depictions of the holy family in the clerestory windows. A small evergreen wreath catches his eye, the four colored candles nestled into it standing tall, unmelted despite Advent’s nearing end; that would mean the village must have been attacked less than a few weeks ago, he surmises.

The sanctuary lamp hangs beside the tabernacle, no light to be found flickering within it to signify Christ’s presence. Alucard was right – God truly has abandoned this place.

Trevor leans back against the frigid wall and draws his knees to his chest, curling his arms around them and shoving his numb fingers into the crooks of his arms in a fruitless attempt to warm them. Air flows quickly in and out of his lungs as his breath comes in short, abrupt gasps, intensifying his feeling of lightheadedness. He glances up to see Sypha and Alucard talking heatedly about something, but their words don't meet his ears, his fogged mind tuning them out and focusing solely on just how _tired_ he is. Slowly, he lets his eyes stutter closed and rests his chin on the tops of his knees, the fatigue brought on from his grueling, icy trek overwhelming him. _Just ten minutes,_ he sleepily tells himself. _Then I'll wake up._

A sharp slap to his cheek – not strong enough to turn his head, but enough to leave his skin stinging – jolts him from his dozing and sets his mouth in a grim scowl. Trevor opens his eyes to find himself face-to-face with Alucard.

"The hell was that for?" he grouses, pressing a palm against the smarting spot.

"Keep your eyes open, Belmont," Alucard barks back at him. "If you fall asleep like this, you might never wake up."

"I'm sure you'd love that," Trevor mumbles under his breath.

"Contrary to what you believe, I really wouldn't."

Alucard cranes his neck to look at Sypha and nods toward the altar. "See if you can find some blankets and something he can drink that isn't water. I'll get him out of his wet clothing."

Trevor weakly jerks his head toward the wooden door that hangs open behind the altar. "There ought to be something in the sacristy," he says. "Wine, at least."

"Belmont," Sypha snaps, disapproval lacing her tone. “That wine is blessed.” Even she, it seems, has some modicum of respect for things considered sacred by the church. She shoots a momentary frown his way and then flicks two fingers upward; beside Trevor, the bye-altar blazes to life, the wick of every candle flickering with fire borne of Speaker magic and illuminating the space around them with a soft orange glow that sets shadows dancing on the church walls.

"It won't be blessed," he replies, rolling his eyes. "It's just regular, shitty wine with an abhorrently low alcohol content until a priest gets his hands on it. Doubtful there's one of _those_ left alive in this place."

His answer doesn’t seem to placate Sypha’s displeasure, but if she has any more thoughts on the matter, she withholds them in favor of setting off to scavenge around the sacristy. Trevor closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall only to be once again startled from his drowsy state by Alucard, who roughly unclasps the chain that fastens Trevor’s cloak around his neck and shoves the wet, mostly-frozen mess off his body. 

“What are you doing?” Trevor asks, brow furrowed. He’s too tired to shove Alucard away and whatever feeling he had left in his hands has since vanished, fingertips dyed a dangerous, creeping mix of faded blues and reds by the cold. 

Alucard doesn’t pause in his undressing of Trevor as he answers, “Keeping you in this wet clothing will only make your body temperature continue to plummet. For _once_ , Belmont, I need you to sit still and be quiet; this is a matter of living or dying, not some petty wound that can easily be sewn up and done with.” 

“Okay,” Trevor murmurs, the sense of urgency in Alucard’s voice apparent enough that he doesn’t feel arguing would do him any good. He sits back and lets the vampire unbuckle the leather straps that cross his body and hold his smaller daggers in place, tossing them aside on top of the discarded cloak and pulling the the hem of his shirt up from where it’s tucked into his belt. A small shower of ice that had frozen upon his tunic falls off in the process, and Trevor watches through tired, half-lidded eyes as the flakes drift to the dark ground.

“Give me your arm,” Alucard murmurs. Trevor obliges wordlessly, and surprisingly gentle fingers untie the laces that keep his leather vambraces fastened to his forearm, sliding them carefully off over his numb hands and dusting away the frost that’s crusted to the fur lining. Alucard’s hands are cool as he touches Trevor’s skin and examines his fingers, but for once, it doesn’t startle him; they’re still a shred warmer than his whole body feels right now, and he almost whines when that scrap of heat disappears as Alucard lets his hand go and starts working on untying the other vambrace.

The vampire narrows his eyes as he fumbles with the latches and buckles on Trevor’s belt, the tip of his tongue just barely sticking out from between his lips as he concentrates in a way that’s oddly endearing to Trevor. He manages to maneuver the satchels and sheath and other various straps wrapped around Trevor’s waist, setting them gently aside, full aware of just how much the hunter cares for his weapons. When his fingers move to undo the belt buckle, Trevor lets out a throaty chuckle, head lolling backward and eyes fixed on Alucard.

“At least buy me a drink, first,” he mumbles, a cheshire grin on his lips. 

“I believe I’ve already bought you _several_ over the course of our knowing eachother,” Alucard replies coolly. “Though I suppose you may have become too inebriated every time to remember.”

“One more wouldn’t hurt. Don’t let just _anyone_ get into my pants, after all. Last son of the Belmont family – I’m a prize to be won.”

Alucard pauses, but doesn’t look up at him. “The cold is getting to your head, Belmont,” he murmurs, sliding Trevor’s belt from around his waist and pointedly ignoring his wet pants in favor of yanking off his boots. 

A palm is pressed against Trevor’s chest in an attempt to calm his shivering as Alucard slowly thumbs open the buttons on his shirt.

“Careful,” Trevor says, “that’s my only shirt.”

“I’m aware. The stench is horrific.”

“Sorry for offending your delicate senses. _Some_ of us have been travelling for the past year; can’t exactly find soap and a washboard in the wilderness,” Trevor retorts.

Alucard snorts derisively and works the last button open, sliding Trevor’s shirt off his shoulders and down his arms. “I’ll purchase you another tunic whenever we come across another town simply to save myself from having to _smell_ you any longer, assuming we make it out of this church without you succumbing to hypothermia.”

“I’ll make sure to come back as a ghost and haunt you for allowing me to die, in that case.”

“ _Please_ , I do not think I could endure such a lifetime of torture,” Alucard huffs.

“Torture? I’m a _delight_ to be around. It would be a privilege to have my ghost lingering about.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Belmont.”

Cold air immediately hits Trevor’s bared chest, and he instinctively wraps his arms around himself, shaking violently. One of Alucard’s hands grasps his wrists and pulls them away from his body, and Trevor sees him shrug out of his overcoat, leaving himself in nothing but his flimsy white shirt and dark breeches. 

Alucard moves to put his coat on Trevor, but the hunter stops him, senseless fingers wrapping around his forearm. “Don’t,” he mutters, pushing the coat away. “Just.. keep it. I know you can feel the cold.”

“I knew you were daft, but not this much,” Alucard replies, and he forcibly pries Trevor’s hand off his arm and slips one sleeve of the coat onto the freezing man.

“I’ll be fine. Sypha will come back with some blankets or whatever else priests keep around in churches, and I can use those.”

“For the love of–” Alucard huffs and jerks the coat around behind Trevor’s back and slides the other sleeve on, pulling it tight around the hunter’s body. “Just take the damn thing, Belmont. I’m sure I can withstand a bit of a chill.”

“Bossy,” Trevor grumbles. The coat’s warmth is welcome, and he tugs the edges closer to his body, chin burrowing into the high collar. Though it doesn’t stop completely, his constant shivering noticeably abates, which is good enough for Trevor. Alucard inches closer, knees on other side of Trevor’s, and cards his hands through dark, frigid hair.

“What are you–”

“Getting the frost out. It’s been irritating me.”

Trevor quirks a brow, but doesn’t reply. The feeling of hands running through his hair is, admittedly, quite pleasant, so he burrows further into the coat’s collar, closes his eyes, and lets Alucard sift out all the frost he likes.

Hurried footsteps echoing around the empty church signal Sypha’s return, and Trevor opens his eyes to find her standing beside he and Alucard, arms full of blankets and vestments with two bottles of altar wine on top. 

“This is all I could find,” she says, setting the little pile down upon the ground and glancing up at Trevor. “Are you feeling all right, Belmont?”

“Just peachy,” he deadpans. “I’d feel a hell of a lot better with some of that wine in me.”

Alucard rocks back on his heels and stands up, dusting his hands off on his pants; Trevor frowns at the loss of the sensation of fingers smoothing through his hair, loathe as he is to admit to himself that he’d like for the vampire to keep touching him.

“Can you heat this up?” Alucard asks Sypha, picking up one of the wine bottles and examining it. “It will help warm him.”

“On it,” Sypha replies. Trevor watches her, enamored, as she closes her eyes and conjures a simmering flame in the palm of one hand and holds it under the bottom of the bottle. He’s seen her work spells enough that he’s accustomed to the fact that she can perform such powerful magic, but it still mystifies him each time he sees her summon flame from nothingness or create sharp shards of ice using only droplets of water or shove a foe away with a wall of air.

“Won’t that melt the bottle?” Trevor asks, brows furrowed.

“The flame is not hot enough to do so,” she replies.

“You can control the temperature?” He remembers the massive barricades of flame she had erected back when the good people of Gresit had been inches away from crucifying him, and how the flames had felt hotter than hell at the time – he doesn’t doubt that her fire could have easily melted through something as mundane as a glass bottle. “Christ, that must take a lot of concentration.”

“I’ve spent my whole life learning to master my art, just as you have.” Sypha stares at the flames that flicker beneath the bottom of the wine bottle, lines of concentration formed between her knit brows. “I know the exact points at which ice melts and water boils, how hot fire must be to heat the hilt of a man’s sword until it burns his hands, and how much wind is required to levitate a body - among other things. Speaker magic is precise.”

“Here I am just swinging a whip around,” Trevor mutters, suddenly feeling a bit outclassed. 

“And you are very good at doing that,” Sypha points out. The flame in her palm gutters, and she pops the cork and hands the bottle to Alucard. “It should be warm enough, now.”

Alucard puts a palm to the side of the glass and nods, satisfied. “Drink up, Belmont,” he says, passing the bottle down to Trevor. “Consider this your _one more_.”

Trevor takes the wine happily, the bottle instantly beginning to warm his hands. He holds it between them and curls his fingers, rolls his palms back and forth, presses his knuckles to the sides, attempting to soak up every bit of heat radiating from the glass and warm his numbed hands. Feeling begins to come back to him slowly – small prickles in his fingertips, first, that grow and blossom until he can somewhat perceive the smooth bottle in his grasp. A sigh of relief escapes his lips, and he tilts the wine heavenward in thanks, chugging a good portion of the spirit in one go. 

“Slow down, Belmont, it’s not a race,” Sypha says with a chuckle. Trevor rolls his eyes at her and pointedly drinks faster.

Warmth blooms in his body as he drinks, and by the time he’s finished off the entire bottle, his shivering has mostly subsided. He rests the bottle in his lap, hands wrapped around it to soak up the lingering warmth captured in the glass.

“Got any more?” he asks, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand.

“Give me a few moments,” Sypha replies. She stoops down to grab the second bottle off the top of the pile she’d brought over, concentrating on it and working her magic once more.

Alucard, in the meantime, grabs several of the blankets and tosses them in Trevor’s face. “Wrap these around yourself. You’ll feel better.”

“Could’ve just handed them to me,” Trevor retorts, quick enough to catch the blankets before he ends up with a faceful of threadbare linen. He shakes them out and tucks them around his legs and shoulders, a welcome comfort on top of Alucard’s cozy overcoat. Alucard sits down beside him with a heavy sigh, leaning his head back against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest, obviously taking a chance to rest now that Trevor is no longer in any significant danger. Sypha settles down on Alucard’s other side, looking rather snug in her heavy Speaker robes. She hands Trevor the heated bottle of wine after she deems it sufficiently warm, and he nods his head at her in silent thanks as he gratefully takes it.

They sit in companionable silence, and Trevor clutches the blankets tight around himself as he idly sips wine and relishes the feeling of warmth returning to his body. It’s some sort of fucked-up irony, he thinks, that he was at all near becoming one of the lifeless, frostbitten corpses he’s become so accustomed to seeing in the winter, simply because of a fluke; years of his parents drilling into him how to keep safe during the year’s coldest months mean nothing when God is hellbent on fucking his entire life up six ways to Sunday, it seems. 

Trevor doesn’t know how much time has passed since they arrived, but the utter darkness creeping through the church windows and the howling of the blizzard outside are indicators that he can at least get a few hours’ rest before they set out again, assuming the storm calms enough to allow them even that. He drains the rest of the wine and glances over at his two companions – Alucard relaxes with his eyes closed, looking positively impeccable as usual, and Sypha flips through a leather-bound tome that she must have hidden beneath the looming pile of blankets she’d brought back from the sacristy. 

A slow breath slips from his lips. He’s safe – they’re _all_ safe – for the time being, a rare moment of peace in their journeying. Trevor’s gaze drifts, unbidden, toward Alucard’s relaxed form; his eyes trace the vampire’s high cheekbones, the golden lashes that fan out over pale skin, the small lock of hair near his temple that seems to be perpetually curled, the gentle rise and fall of his chest. The light of the prayer candles resting in the alcove to their side casts a soft glow around them, and shadows flicker in the crevices of Alucard’s collarbones, across the cruel scar that peeks out of his shirt, down his lithe body.

Trevor presses his lips in a thin line and tears his eyes away from the vampire, staring blankly at a stone statue of the Virgin Mary set into the wall across from him instead. _The cold really is getting to my head_ , he thinks.

He burrows his chin into the collar of Alucard’s coat and faintly notices that it smells of him, of lingering campfire smoke and lye soap and something vaguely coppery that he can’t quite place. Trevor lets his eyes close and clutches the blankets tight to his body; this time, when he drifts to sleep, Alucard does not wake him.

\- - 

When Trevor begins to stir, the first thing he notices is something soft tickling his nose. He scrunches his face, tries to blow whatever it is away, but each time it barely budges. The second thing he notices is something hard beneath his cheek; he blinks awake slowly, bleary eyes adjusting to the simmering candlelight that illuminates the darkness around him. A veil of gold hangs in front of his face – _hair_ , Trevor thinks groggily. His eyes flit downward, registering the hardness his face rests on as a bony shoulder. A shoulder belonging to someone. _Alucard’s shoulder,_ he realizes, bolting upright and nearly slamming his head into the vampire’s jaw in the process. 

“You’re quite the heavy sleeper,” Alucard says smoothly, not bothering to look up from the book spread open in his lap. “Literally. I didn’t think you had enough of a brain in that head of yours to make it weigh so much.”

“Didn’t mean to fall asleep on you,” Trevor mumbles, scratching the back of his head sheepishly.

Alucard waves a dismissive hand at him. “You needed the sleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”

Trevor peers down at the book in Alucard’s lap; Latin words sprawl across the pages, painstakingly penned by someone’s impeccable hand and accompanied by small illustrations detailed in shades of blue and red and gold leaf. 

“A vampire reading the Bible,” he says, snorting amusedly. “Now I’ve seen it all.” 

“Sypha found it in the sacristy,” Alucard replies, gesturing toward the heap of softly snoring blue robes curled up beside him. “She fell asleep while reading, and seeing as I was otherwise.. limited in activities to entertain myself until the both of you awakened, I decided to do a bit of light reading. There are some interesting stories in here.”

“Was always fond of the one about the plagues, myself. Seems a bit too realistic for my tastes, now, though, considering..” Trevor trails off, waving a hand vaguely at the church doors in a motion he hopes Alucard perceives as _the monster-plagued hellscape that Wallachia currently is._

Alucard nods as he closes the Bible and sets it aside. “How are you feeling?”

“A hell of a lot better than I was when we came here,” Trevor replies. He shoves off some of the blankets and stretches, working the kinks out of his back and extending his arms above his head; he still feels a bit sluggish and lightheaded, but considering his present _alive_ and _warm_ state, he can grin and bear it. 

“Good to hear.”

Trevor crosses his arms behind his neck, pillowing his head on his hands as he leans back against the wall. From the corner of his eyes, he can see Alucard peering at him with an expression he can’t quite place – relief, or perhaps curiosity. The vampire looks away after a moment, and Trevor turns his head and bumps Alucard’s shoulder with his own. 

“..Thank you,” he murmurs. “For helping me out.”

“It would be rather inconvenient for you to die before we even reach my father’s castle.”

“Mm,” Trevor hums in agreement. “Guess I owe you one, don’t I? For saving me?”

“You can repay me once we’ve slain my father,” Alucard replies. 

“I’ll do whatever the fuck you want if we make it out of that castle alive.”

The vampire’s lips press in a thin smirk. “I’ll hold you to that.”

He realizes he’s still wearing Alucard’s coat, and as he moves to shrug out of it, the other man stops him.

“Keep it for now. Sypha did her best to dry your things, but they’re still a bit damp.” Alucard’s eyes flit down his form. “It suits you better than that _thing_ you call a cloak, anyhow. You actually look the part of a nobleman.”

Trevor’s lip curls. “Always hated wearing the fancy shit my parents forced me into. _Nobleman_ ,” he scoffs. Craning his neck, he glances up at the stained glass windows above them. It’s still dark out, but the wailing winds seem to have died down. “How long ‘til sunrise?”

“A few hours, I’d wager. You slept most of the night.”

“Guess we might as well stock up while we have the chance,” Trevor suggests. Looking around the church, the baptismal font and a few crucifixes hung intermittently around the nave catch his eyes. Perfect. 

“Don’t suppose you want to grab me some of those crosses and a bit of holy water?”

“ _Belmont_ ,” Alucard replies exasperatedly, rolling his eyes.

Trevor just grins back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've loved reading all of your comments so far! more is on the way soon.


	4. Chapter 4

The tavern’s wooden sign hangs just above the door upon rusted hooks and clearly has seen better days, Trevor notes, the flowing script that bears the establishment’s name only faintly visible, now.

“ _The Hangman’s End_ ,” he reads dryly, a single exasperated brow quirked at the crude and faded painting of a bound figure suspended upside-down from a gallows, akin to the arcana card he’d seen toted in the decks of the fortune tellers that made their money reading futures on the waysides of Wallachian city roads. “How pleasant.” 

Sypha rolls her eyes at his reaction, eyeing the sign. “The devil himself could be the barkeep and I would not care as long as they’ve a bath, a real bed, and some hot food,” she says decidedly, stepping past Trevor and shouldering the door open. 

“I’ll drink to that,” Alucard agrees, following the young magician’s steps. Trevor grunts and quickly steps to catch up, shooting Alucard a pointed glance.

“You’d best hope I don’t catch you drinking anything _other_ than liquor while we’re here,” he mutters, earning a short bark of laughter from the vampire.

The warmth of the tavern is a welcome respite after trudging through the frigid weather outside for hours on end, and Trevor basks in the feeling of his cheeks and extremities thawing, relieved. A large, stone-lined hearth built into the middle of the tavern’s leftmost wall houses a roaring fire that cracks and spits sparks and warms the room like simmering flame in a dragon’s belly. It’s a homely place, the atmosphere a familiar comfort to Trevor; no matter where he journeys, taverns always seem to be the same – bottles and kegs and flagons lining the walls, well-worn wooden tables and furnishings, rowdy drunks, the lingering smell of alcohol and piss, some poor sod inevitably passed out somewhere – they’re the single constant in his life, and for that, he’s grateful. 

Trevor is surprised by the amount of people packed into the room, a good deal of the tables already occupied by groups of men and women and the buzz of loud and tipsy conversations filling the place with a strange sort of merriment. Despite the plague of monsters ravaging Wallachia and the equally treacherous winter besetting the land, it seems the promise of alcohol, warmth, and good company can still bring the commonfolk together to indulge themselves for a bit; Trevor can empathize. 

Sypha tugs on his sleeve, jolting him from his thoughts. “Alucard’s gone to get us a room,” she says, nodding toward the man in question who stands near the bar with a small bag of coins in one hand as he talks with a woman Trevor presumes is the innkeeper. 

“ _A_ room?” 

“His words,” Sypha replies, offering a shrug of her shoulders.

Trevor scrubs a hand down his face, irritated. “If he thinks I’m going to share a bed with _anyone_ or sleep on the bloody _floor_ after days of camping out in the fucking wilds, he’s sorely mistaken.”

The young Speaker raises her hands up in an uninvolved gesture, waving his words away. “Do not kill the messenger,” she says. “Air your grievances to him; whatever you two decide, I _will_ be getting my own bed.” She flashes him a cheeky grin before making a beeline in the direction of one of the barmaids currently tapping a keg for another patron, leaving Trevor by his lonesome. 

It’s been days since they’ve slept in real beds – not the makeshift sort comprised of cloaks and travel packs and furs and whatever soft was around at the time, curled up on the freezing floors of caves with only a crackling fire for warmth and the distant wails of wolves to lull them to sleep. Trevor will be damned if he has to sleep on a scuffed hardwood floor next to Alucard while Sypha commandeers the _single_ bed in their _single_ room. The thought of it is enough to lead him to the bar, sidling up beside Alucard and abruptly inserting himself into whatever conversation is being had between the vampire and the innkeeper.

“A little bird tells me you’re only getting us one room,” Trevor comments, arms crossed over his chest as he stares Alucard down.

“And you have some issue with that, I assume?”

“We’ve been sleeping on the ground for _days_. Sypha and I at least deserve our own rooms; you can go off and find some.. coffin to nap in, I suppose. I’m sure the local cemetery isn’t lacking in accommodations for your sort.”

Alucard meets his gaze, unblinking. “It would be wiser for us to save our coin, should an unexpected situation arise.”

“Who died and left you in charge of our money?”

“Seeing as _you_ would probably spend it all on beer the first chance you get, my keeping the money is a.. safer alternative.”

Trevor lets out a snort, lip tugged upward in a sneer. “Don’t see why we can’t splurge a bit on comfort. Maybe we can pluck one of these gold buttons off your fancy little coat; might be worth a pretty penny,” he says, tugging pointedly at one of the lapels on Alucard’s overcoat, thumb brushing the embroidering around a gold-wrought button. 

Alucard bats his hand away, brows furrowed. He opens his mouth to say something, but his words are cut off by the innkeeper that Trevor had nearly forgotten about in the heat of their argument.

“We’ve more than enough rooms to go around, right now. I can get you three for just a bit more than the price of one – ‘s not like we’re usin’ ‘em, anyhow,” she says as she leans her elbows on the bartop, face taut with weariness.

“Business that slow?” Trevor asks, turning from Alucard to face her, interest piqued.

“Mm,” she hums in reply. “Don’t get many travellers through here nowadays, what with the monsters ‘n all. Can’t do much about it, though; hopefully somethin’ll change, else this will be an inn full’a empty beds, soon enough.”

Trevor nods his head toward the raucous patrons milling about and drinking in the main taproom. “What’s this crowd, then?” 

“Locals, mostly. They like to come ‘round after a day’s work. Not much else to do here durin’ the winter, ‘side from drink ‘n try not to freeze.” 

“Folk after my own heart,” he replies, laughing dryly. Trevor’s eyes flick back to Alucard and he gives the vampire a soft tap on the chest to get his attention. “So, what will the verdict be? Shall we take her offer, or will you continue to be an ass and hold onto our coin like an old miser?”

Alucard meets his gaze and heaves a sigh in lieu of deigning his snippy comment with an answer. Untying the coin pouch and sifting through it, he pulls out a few silver pieces and slides them across the counter to the innkeeper. “Will this cover all three of the rooms?” he asks.

The woman’s face brightens at the sight of money being passed her way, and she eagerly takes the offered coins into a palm and slips them out of sight. “That’ll do,” she replies with a nod. “Rooms each come with a meal. Still got a bit of stew left over from dinner earlier if you lot are hungry.”

“Food sounds bloody heavenly right now,” Trevor replies, the empty ache in his belly agreeing with him. The innkeeper flashes him a smile with all too many teeth missing and points a wizened finger at an empty table near the fireplace.

“Sit, sit. I will bring you plenty.”

He’s all too happy to comply and threads his way through the crowd of people with Alucard in tow. Sypha joins them a moment later, hauling three flagons brimming with ale and dropping them on the table with little ceremony, liquid sloshing everywhere.

“I didn’t know if you liked ale or not, but it was the cheapest thing on tap,” she says to Alucard, sliding him one of the mugs.

“Ale is fine,” Alucard replies, accepting it gracefully but not making any move to drink from it, Trevor notes.

“And I figured Belmont would drink horse piss as long as it had alcohol in it,” Sypha murmurs with a snicker, bringing her own mug of ale to her lips and taking a draw from it. Trevor is momentarily affronted but concedes wordlessly because she makes a fair point; instead of defending his wounded honor, he snatches the last flagon from the table and silently chugs down what tastes like it very well might _be_ horse piss. 

Alucard digs in his travel pack and pulls out the map they’ve been using to navigate, unrolling it on the tabletop. “We should plot a course for where we intend to venture next,” he says, eyes scanning the detailed inkings of mountain ranges and forests and cities throughout Wallachia and the areas beyond its borders.

“It would help if we knew _where_ we should go,” Trevor mutters, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. “We haven’t seen hide nor hair of anything that looks to be Dracula’s castle, and continually setting out on the heels of the unknown just because we know it’s _somewhere_ doesn’t exactly sound like the best plan.”

“I agree,” Alucard replies evenly, “which is why we should ask around tonight. The locals might know something, and the next town is miles away, whatever direction we decide to venture; if they have heard word from those that fled the towns around Targoviste, they may be able to aid us in our planning.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Sypha chirps. 

Trevor finishes off his first beer and enjoys the tavern’s ambiance while Sypha idly sips at hers and Alucard pores over the map. The innkeeper drops by with three bowls of stew and a few dark rolls of bread, setting them down on the table.

“Last of our bread, right there,” she says, wiping her hands on the apron tied around her waist. “Lucky you came by when y’did. The locals would’ve eaten it all, soon enough.”

“Thanks,” Trevor replies, eyeing the stew hungrily. It looks like heaven compared to the hard tack they’ve been eating for the past several days. 

Alucard glances up from the map, offering the innkeeper a courteous smile. “May we trouble you for just one more thing?” he asks.

“An’ what might that be?” 

“News. I understand that you have not had many travellers pass through as of late, but has there been any talk from those that have visited about what happened in Targoviste?”

“What, y’mean the Devil’s massacre that happened there? Seems to be all folk from out of town talk about nowadays.”

“Were there any survivors? And has there been any mention of a.. castle, in the city?”

The innkeeper scrubs her chin with a wrinkled hand, lips pursed in thought. “Haven’t heard about a castle, but a lad that came through from Severin recently said he was headin’ up north to help some’a the refugees that managed to escape bein’ killed by the demons. Said he was a healer, or sommat.”

“North?” Alucard presses.

“Mm.. Brasov, I think he was goin’ off to. Somethin’ about the monsters not havin’ spread beyond the mountains yet, so people’re takin’ refuge in the city there, I s’pose.”

The vampire nods slowly, eyes flitting downward once more to examine the map. “That would make sense,” he murmurs. Glancing back at the innkeeper, he nods his head at her, grateful. “Thank you for your time and hospitality.”

“Not a problem. If you lot need anything else, y’know where t’find me,” she quips, waving them off and returning to her post behind the bar.

Once she is gone, Trevor snatches the map from where it rests before Alucard and holds it in front of his face, eyes trailing over scrawled words to find Brasov. It’s a little dot nestled just above a rather pointy-looking range of drawn mountains, a small, dashed path denoting a way of passage through the range to reach it. _Fuck no,_ he thinks as he looks at the distance between their current location and where he’s sure Alucard is about to tell them they should venture next.

“We are _not_ going to Brasov,” Trevor says flatly, finality in his voice.

“Do you have a better plan, Belmont? Please, enlighten us,” Alucard replies. 

Slamming the map back down on the table, Trevor fixes Alucard with a withering stare, teeth grit. “Passing through the mountains in the middle of winter is a death sentence. _Anything_ would be a better plan than this.”

“So you’d like us to continue wandering from town to town and _hoping_ that we somehow stumble into my father’s castle?” the vampire replies. “It could be anywhere by now, and knowing him, it’s doubtful he remained in Targoviste after unleashing his plague.”

“And you think going to Brasov will somehow bring us closer to finding it? You must be daft,” Trevor spits back.

“The people that fled to Brasov were there the day my father came and might know _something_ ,” Alucard huffs. 

“So that’s it, then? We’re going to pass through the mountains and hope they know ‘something’? Christ almighty, I’d like to actually _get_ to Dracula’s castle before fucking dying in the snow somewhere. Had enough of freezing my ass off for one lifetime,” he mutters darkly.

“It’s a better lead than any we have right now and any we might find if we continue our inane journeying to the Devil-knows-where.”

Trevor’s hands clench, fingernails digging into his gritty palms. He wants to keep pushing the issue, keep arguing his point with Alucard, but he knows what the vampire is saying makes better sense than what he wants; after all, he _was_ the one to bring up the issue of their aimless wanderings and need for direction beforehand. It’s possible the survivors in Brasov might know something, but he’s heard the tales told of parties that ventured into the mountains mid-winter, only to never return, presumed dead by grieving friends and families and bodies left to succumb to frost and rot, forgotten amidst the snowy peaks. 

“Whatever,” Trevor growls, grabbing the handle of his flagon and hastily drinking down the rest of the ale and tilting it upward to suck out the dregs. With an annoyed flick of his wrist, he sends the map back Alucard’s way. “If we die, our blood is on your hands.”

“Sorry to intrude upon your little lovers’ spat,” Sypha interjects, a teasing lilt lacing her words, “but I might just have a solution to the issue at hand.”

Trevor is all-too ready to snap at Sypha for even insinuating something of the sort between he and the _vampire_ , but Alucard cuts him off, leaning forward on the table with an interested glint in his golden eyes. 

“What might that be?” he asks, pointedly ignoring Trevor’s affronted huff as he fixes his attention solely on the young Speaker.

Sypha takes their abused map and studies it for a moment, tapping a fingernail on a tiny dot near the top of the paper accompanied by just-as-tiny lettering. “Many of my people travel between northern towns to provide help as needed and collect stories and knowledge. Last I heard, a caravan had stopped in Koscia for a few weeks – they are likely still there, and if there are survivors in Brasov, I have no doubt they will make their way through the mountains soon to aid them.”

Peering at the town Sypha points to, Alucard narrows his eyes and slowly nods his head. He trails a fingertip from Koscia to the dotted path that slices through the mountains and leads to Brasov. The two aren’t far from each other, Trevor notes.

“Travelling with a caravan would prove far safer than venturing on our own,” Alucard murmurs, eyes still scanning the parchment laid out before them. Eyes rising to meet Sypha’s, he continues, “And the Speakers will allow us to travel with them?”

“Mmhm,” Sypha hums, head bobbing. “It is not uncommon for us to allow strangers into our accompaniment as we travel. Besides, you will be with me. They would not deny a request from their own kin.”

“Perfect,” Trevor drawls, voice drawn out and edged with exasperated venom, “We get to slog through the mountains with a bunch of Speakers. Sounds like a fucking _dream_.” His nerves are frayed and his mouth is entirely too dry – Christ, he could use one or five pitchers of ale right now.

“Give it a rest, Belmont,” Sypha chides him, jostling his side with a good-natured elbow. “How about I get you some more liquor so you can drink and brood to your heart’s content?”

He mumbles a stilted ‘fine’ and waves her off to go find one of the barmaids, leaving him alone momentarily with Alucard. Glancing up, his eyes meet the vampire’s curious gaze, a single prim brow raised.

“Quit gawking.”

Some emotion flits over Alucard’s features, but it’s there and gone before Trevor can even pinpoint what it might be. Just to spite him, Trevor reaches over and grabs the other man’s as-of-yet untouched ale, taking a sip and setting it down next to his empty flagon before letting out a belch stifled by the back of his hand. 

“Charming as ever,” Alucard says dryly. The vampire pushes his chair back and stands, head tilting as he glances around the packed taproom. “I’m going to talk to some more of the local folk and find out if they have any other pertinent information.”

“Have fun,” Trevor replies, taking a pointed sip of Alucard’s beer and following the man with his eyes as he stalks off into the depths of the crowd. Once he’s gone, Trevor slides back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest, letting out a sigh of relief. Every time he talks to Alucard, he feels so.. tense. Their constant back-and-forth frustrates him to no end, but a small part of him enjoys it. Enjoys trading jabs and matching wits and seeing flickers of exasperation and amusement and irritation in those golden eyes. No matter how hard he tries to quash the inexplicable pleasure that his bickerings and talks with Alucard bring him, he never seems to be able to in full; if Trevor could blame it on the alcohol like he can a great deal of other past mistakes and tangled emotions in his life, he would. But he knows he can’t. Something about that Christ-be-damned vampire is magnetic, keeps him coming back against his better judgement.

The cool metal rim of the flagon in Trevor’s hand is at his lips before he even registers what he’s doing, irritated mind on autopilot with the habitual goal of imbibing enough alcohol to forget about his issues for a bit. To forget about _Alucard_ , tonight.

While he’s ruminating, Sypha slips back into her seat at the table with another flagon in hand, filled to the brim with ale. She passes it across the table to Trevor, joining the emptied mug and the drink that had momentarily been Alucard’s before being commandeered by the hunter. 

“Barmaid over there sends her regards,” Sypha chirps, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. “Says this one’s on the house.” Trevor glances up from the woodgrain of the table he’d been staring frustratedly at and catches the gaze of the pretty blonde standing behind the bar, rag in hand as she empties dregs from mugs and cleans them out. She sets a flagon aside to dry and gives Trevor a shy wave, which he returns with a courteous nod of thanks for the free drink.

“Nice of her,” he mutters as he runs a finger over the wet rim of Alucard’s mug, the vampire still on his mind. 

A foxlike grin slowly spreads across Sypha’s face, and she rests her elbow on the table, chin cupped in her palm as she peers at Trevor. “You going to go _thank_ her, Belmont?” she teases, the implication of her words clear. “She’s quite pretty.”

“Maybe later,” he replies, attention turning to his untouched stew. He rips off a hearty chunk of bread and swipes it through the broth, popping the entire thing in his mouth ungracefully. 

Sypha seems to take note of his sour mood and leans forward, both elbows resting on the table. “What’s got you in such a black mood?” she asks, stealing the torn roll of bread in his hand and polishing it off. 

“Just.. a lot on my mind.”

“Copper for your thoughts?” 

“I’d like to think my thoughts are worth a bit more,” he replies dryly, idly running his wooden spoon through the thick broth of the stew. 

“ _Two_ copper, then?” she presses, cheeky. 

“Drop it, Sypha. It’s nothing.”

“Fine, fine,” Sypha concedes, leaning back in her chair to attack her own bowl of soup hungrily. He finishes off his second mug of ale while she eats, alcohol slowly beginning to make his head swim pleasantly. A cursory glance around the tavern leads his eyes to Alucard’s familiar figure, listening intently to whatever the old man he’s currently conversing with is saying. Trevor quickly looks away, mouth twisted in a frown, wishing for something other than alcohol to take his mind off things. A game, perhaps; he’s sure Sypha wouldn’t turn him down, always one to rise to a challenge.

When the innkeep passes by their table carrying several empty bowls and glasses, Trevor catches her attention with a wave of his hand. 

“What can I do for you?” she asks, eyes flitting between Trevor and the precariously-balanced bowl that looks as if it might teeter off the top of the mountain of dishes in her arms at one wrong move. 

“Do you have knucklebones, by any chance?” he asks.

She scoffs. “What, y’think we’re some backwater village? I got dice you can use. Bit more civilized than the old way.”

Trevor bites back a retort about the shithole village that is most _definitely_ a backwater and instead nods. “Dice are fine.”

“I’ll go fetch ‘em, then,” she says, walking away carefully with her pile of balanced dishes. 

Sypha mops up the last of her stew with the roll she’s been tearing away at and pushes the emptied bowl aside. “Knucklebones?” she asks around a mouthful of bread, the word coming out more like ‘ _muh-mul-moh_.’ Trevor stifles a small snort of laughter at her full-cheeked, inquisitive expression, one brow arched like the bend of a questionmark.

“Thought we could play a few rounds. Pass the time,” he replies. “You know how to play, right?”

The Speaker swallows the last of her food and wipes a palm across her mouth. “Of course I know how to play,” she says, indignant. “My grandfather taught me when I was a child. It was a good way to pass the time while travelling.”

“Just making sure,” Trevor replies. He glances down at the state of affairs on their tabletop – two mugs drained on his side and a third nearly there, one almost down for Sypha; he’s going to need a little re-up, soon, and a hand dipped into his pocket tells him that he doesn’t have quite enough coin on his person to last the rest of the night. 

An idea comes to him, smirk curving the edges of his mouth as he hunches forward closer to Sypha, elbows atop the table. “How about we make things a little.. interesting, then? Since you’re already so adept at playing, it seems.”

“Interesting?” she asks, curiosity piqued. 

“A wager. Best two of three games per round, loser buys the winner a drink.”

She rolls her eyes. “Your subtlety knows no bounds, Belmont. You could just _ask_ me to buy you more ale if you have no coin left.”

“This is far more entertaining.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Sypha concedes. 

She’s about to say something else, but her words are cut off by the innkeeper, who sets a small cloth bag down in front of Trevor. “There’s your dice,” she says. “If you lose ‘em, y’gotta pay for ‘em.”

“I’ll protect them with my life,” Trevor replies, deadpan.

“That’s what I like to hear. Well, you two enjoy your little game.” She gives them a parting wave and returns to attend to the other tavern patrons.

Trevor unlaces the top of the bag and pours five small wooden dice onto the table. He picks them up and inspects each one, pleased to see that they’re all triangular and four-sided, the numbers _1_ , _3_ , _4_ , and _6_ etched into the individual facets of each die as per the game’s rules. With a flick of his wrist, he gives them an experimental roll, scattering the objects across the table with wooden clatters. 

“Ladies first,” Trevor says, scooping the dice up and setting the handful down in front of Sypha.

She takes them with a good-natured roll of her eyes, clasping them between two hollowed palms and giving them a roll and a blow for luck. With a cast of her hand, she lets them scatter upon the tabletop; four, four, six, three, one. 

“Eighteen!” she chirps, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair with a triumphant smirk. It’s a good roll to open the game, and Trevor’s lip curls when he sees the up-facing numbers, the severe lack of drinking money in his coinpurse weighing on his mind more than it can possibly weigh his pocket. 

“Easy, now,” he chides, scooping the dice up in a tight fist. “One good throw does not a winner make.”

“Considering _your_ record of shit luck, I think any roll would make me a winner.”

Trevor ignores her jab and throws the dice, and if he thought God couldn’t possibly shit in his ale any more than he already has, he was wrong. Five etched numbers stare up at him, a proverbial smack in the face in the form of a one, two threes, a four, and another one. “Twelve,” he mumbles, fingers wrapping around the handle of his mug glumly, putting the rim to his lips and taking as much of a drink of what’s left as he dares. Soon enough he’ll be in the _negative_ beers if he keeps this up, he thinks.

While Sypha gathers the dice up for another throw, beaming more than she has any right to be, Trevor casts another glance around the tavern floor. The crowd seems to have thinned just a bit, doubtless due to the late hour. A lively ring of men and women surround one of the tables, and Trevor can just barely see two figures deadlocked in an arm wrestling contest, those encircling them shouting loud cheers of encouragement to their favored contestant. He watches for a few moments, amused, before two figures at the bar catch his eye; Alucard, one elbow leaned casually on the bartop, body languid, seems to be engaged in conversation with the pretty barmaid who’d sent Trevor a free drink earlier.

Trevor can see the redness high on her cheekbones, the way she fidgets nervously as she talks, and Alucard seems to take it all in stride, smiling smoothly at her and covering one of her hands with his own in a comforting gesture. The barmaid’s mouth forms a small ‘o’ of surprise, and Alucard’s thumb runs back and forth over her skin, lips curved upward as he says something to her. Something burns inside Trevor at the sight, deep and tight in his stomach, and he clenches his teeth. _Disgust_ is what he first thinks, but it’s not quite that; it’s something different, a feeling he can’t place that makes him furrow his brows and tear his gaze away from the two.

The sound of clattering dice jerks him out of his frustrated reverie, and he looks over to find Sypha still beaming. “Twenty-two! Looks like I win and _you_ owe me a drink.”

Trevor sighs and scoops the dice up resignedly with one hand. He jerks his chin toward the two at the bar, and Sypha turns her head to look at them. “ _I’m going to talk to some more of the local folk_ my fucking ass,” he huffs. “Looks like the vampire’s just keening to get his dick wet.”

“Aw. Sounds like you’re jealous that he’s stolen your girl.” Sypha snickers at him.

“I’m not _jealous_ ,” Trevor snaps, fingers clenching around the dice in his hand. “I’m just..” He mentally grapples to figure out what he _is_ feeling, but comes up short, words trailing.

“If you say so,” Sypha replies in a sing-song tone. “I’m sure if you play your cards right tonight, you can charm her back to you. Since she’s inexplicably into your whole.. scruffy drunk thing. Must be one of the few and far between.”

“Just let it go.”

“Fine, fine. It’s your throw, anyway.”

\- -

Three rounds of losses and an I.O.U. for several ales to a damnably lucky Sypha later, Trevor begs mercy and the dice are set aside. She’s kind, though, and takes pity on him, purchasing several more flagons and assuring him that she will most definitely be cashing in her wins for alcohol somewhere down the line during their trip. Trevor concedes and drowns his unlucky sorrows in shitty ale until he can feel the spins coming on and everything feels pleasant and warm. Alucard still plagues his mind, but when he looks for the vampire, he can’t find the familiar golden hair amongst the other patrons; the pretty barmaid from before, however, is still tapping kegs for customers, and when he finally grabs her attention, Trevor receives a complimentary refill and a shy query as to his plans for the rest of the night. 

Later, he’s grateful that he’d haggled for separate rooms as he leads the barmaid upstairs, ruddy-cheeked and listening to her tipsy giggles. As he fucks her into the mattress and listens to the bedframe rock loudly against the thin wall dividing his and Alucard’s rooms, his fingers thread through the long, golden hair that fans out on the sheets and the green eyes that stare up at him, clouded by lust, flash a similar shade of gold; Trevor bites down on the pale neck beneath him and drunkenly thinks of the man on the other side of their shared wall when he comes, shuddering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a few quick notes on the story:
> 
> -i'm using actual romanian cities but a very (very) loose interpretation of romania (size-wise) itself, just for the sake of fun and adventure. the game played in this chapter is also a variation of an actual & very old game called knucklebones 
> 
> -apologies for the long wait between updates! i'll try to have the next update out as soon as possible, though. thank you so much for reading and leaving wonderful comments! reading them all is such a treat :')


	5. Chapter 5

Trevor has heard plenty of tales about Speaker caravans, but has never, admittedly, seen one with his own eyes before. 

A few days’ slog through the snow brings them to Koscia, where Sypha negotiates safe passage with the sister tribe of Speakers she’d heard would be travelling to Brasov. The next day, they make their way to the outskirts of the city before dawn breaks, bleary-eyed and heavy-limbed and mentally steeling themselves for a long trek through the wintry peaks of the mountains that bar them from their destination. 

He’s surprised by how big this company is compared to Sypha’s back in Gresit; five large wagons with curved tops and ornate designs carved into the wood of their bodies are hitched to pairs of draft horses that pull at their bits and stomp their hooves in the packed snow, raring to leave. Three smaller, rickety carts linger behind the wagons, both hitched to a single horse and loaded up with what looks to be extra sacks of provisions and wood and canvas for repairs, should any of the vehicles suffer an injury. 

Everywhere, there are blue robes and hoods pulled up to obscure faces – he can see Speakers sitting on the backs of the wagons and in the drivers’ seats with reins in their hands, and even more mingle with one another as they wait, supplies and travel packs slung over shoulders and backs. A handful sit astride farmhorses that look about half the size of the colossal ones tethered to the wagons – some are just children, stacked a few to a saddle, but the majority appear to be lookouts, pacing in slow circles around the perimeter of the caravan with eyes keened to the black forest beyond them, keeping watch for threats. 

“Hell of a lot of Speakers,” Trevor mumbles.

Alucard quirks a brow. “Did you expect otherwise?”

“I expected _Speakers_ , just not..” he trails off, flapping a hand in the general direction of the blue crowd, “ _this_ many.”

A voice sounds from the direction of the carts, and a small blur of blue comes sprinting through the snow toward them, shouting, “Sypha!” 

“Lyra!” Sypha cries, nearly tripping over her robes as she runs to throw her arms around the other Speaker. The enthusiastic hug tugs the figure’s hood off in the process, and Trevor catches a glimpse of a girl’s face, her cheeks rounded by youth and ruddied by the frigid air and a mop of brown curls atop her head, cropped short and twinned with form-engulfing robes to maintain an androgynous look akin to the style worn by Sypha and the other female Speakers Trevor has encountered thus far. She’s a short girl – Trevor reckons she can’t be much older than twelve or thirteen, a fair bit younger than Sypha but old enough to apparently warrant her driving one of the smaller carts instead of being saddled up or packed into one of the covered wagons like the other children. 

Sypha pulls back and ruffles the girl’s hair, a grin spread wide upon her lips. “You’ve grown,” she comments, brows raised as if she’s surprised by this development.

Lyra beams. She holds up her hands and tugs her mittens off, tucking them under the sash at her waist. “ _And_ I’ve been practicin’ the magic you taught me. Watch this!” she chirps. Cupped palms held out before her, Lyra’s brows knit and the smile on her face hardens into a look of intense concentration, teeth grit and nose scrunched. Trevor watches her intently, waiting for some sort of spectacular sorcery to manifest itself; instead, a few tiny sparks light up in the center of her hands, morphing into a flame that can’t be larger than the lit wick of an altar candle and hovering just above her skin, flickering lazily in the breeze. 

Sypha takes Lyra’s hands in her own, carefully, her own palms holding Lyra’s as she examines the tiny plume of fire. “This is wonderful!” she says. “The more you practice, the larger the flame will grow. You’ll master the spell in no time; I’m sure of it.”

“Just like you,” Lyra replies, grinning.

Sypha lets out a soft huff of laughter. “Perhaps you will be better than me.”

Lyra flushes at the praise, bashfully taking her hands from Sypha’s and clutching them together, the flame stuttering out with the movement. Trevor rolls his eyes. “Can’t see how she would be,” he comments, arms folded over his chest boredly. “Could barely heat a bowl with a flame that small.”

“ _Belmont!_ ” Sypha snaps, head snapping in his direction.

He raises his hands in a defensive gesture, not meeting her angry gaze and instead staring at Lyra, who stares back at him with a cool expression. “Just speaking the truth.”

“You have no right to––” his Speaker begins, but her words are cut off by Lyra’s.

“A pot.”

“Sorry, what?” Trevor asks.

“I can heat a whole stew-pot with my magic. Takes a bit of time, but I can do it.” Lyra approaches him, stopping a few inches short, boots planted firmly in the snow. She’s barely eye-level with his chest; Trevor stares down at her, and she looks up at him, a single, firm finger prodding the Belmont sigil that’s embroidered into his tunic. “What can _you_ do, Mister Family Crest? Haven’t ever come across a nobleman as dirty as you.” She wrinkles her nose disdainfully. “Or as smelly. Y’ever considered usin’ some of your family’s money to visit a bathhouse?”

Trevor gapes for a moment, then snaps his mouth shut and bats Lyra’s hand away from the crest. He’s surprised – that much is certain. The girl is an assertive little runt, and Trevor finds himself with a newfound respect for her brusque manner. Beside him, Alucard lets out a short chuckle, which Trevor pointedly ignores.

“I slay monsters,” he replies curtly, eyes still locked to Lyra’s defiant gaze. He holds it for a moment, then glances over toward Sypha. “Is she always like this?”

Sypha, her anger at Trevor’s words seeming to have simmered down somewhat with Lyra’s handling of the situation, bobs her head. “Since she was just a child.”

“Mouthy little brat.”

Lyra huffs. “Stinky old man.” 

He hears Alucard laugh once more, and once more he avoids looking at the shit-eating grin that he _knows_ is plastered upon the rat bastard’s face. “I’m not _that_ old, you little––”

“Enough!” Sypha interjects, stepping between he and Lyra, a palm pressed to each of their chests to separate them and diffuse the situation. “Enough. We have not even _left_ yet, and you are already getting into fights, _Belmont_.” She shoots him a pointed glare. Trevor shrugs his shoulders, indifferent. 

“Allow us to introduce ourselves.” Alucard smoothly takes the reins of the conversation, bowing his head to Lyra. “I am Alucard. And this _lovely_ man,” he says, sarcasm lacing his words and a firm hand coming to rest on one of Trevor’s shoulders, “is Trevor. We are… travelling companions of Sypha, for the moment.”

“Hm.” Lyra stares at Alucard for a moment, head cocked to one side as she considers him. There’s no suspicion in her eyes, none of the apprehension or unease that Trevor had seen the other Speakers silently regard Alucard with. She takes him in – the golden eyes, the pale skin, the finery he’s dressed in (and the winter clothes he’s _not_ ), the thick scar that cruelly mars a path down what chest his shirt bares, the hint of fangs she had undoubtedly seen peeking from between his lips when he introduced himself – and gives him a simple, indifferent nod. “Odd companions you’ve got yourself,” she comments to Sypha.

Sypha snorts. “I am well aware.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Mister Alucard.” Lyra’s gaze shifts to Trevor, and she stares at him for a moment with disdain in her eyes. “Can’t say the same for you.”

“The sentiment is mutual,” Trevor mutters dryly. 

“Anyhow, did you all bring your own horses?”

Sypha shakes her head. “I was hoping there would be room in one of the wagons for us..” she trails off, frowning. “I did not anticipate this many would be travelling with your tribe.” 

“A few came in from another tribe just two days ago. Wanted to head up to Brasov ‘n help out, too,” Lyra replies. “Bigger wagons’re full. But you’re in luck –– there’s room in mine.” She jerks her thumb back at the ramshackle-looking wooden cart she’d been sitting astride before running to meet Sypha. Trevor stares at it, unenthused by the prospect of having to travel for several days sitting in the back of a vehicle that looks as if it might fall to pieces at any inopportune moment, but he resigns himself to it nonetheless; it’s better than trudging through the snow for hours on end, he supposes. He stares at the dapple-gray horse that’s hitched to the front and watches it roll its bit in its mouth and paw a hoof in the snow impatiently, clearly ready to get _moving_. Trevor empathizes.

“Fantastic,” Trevor mutters to himself, scrubbing a hand down his face, thumb and forefinger rubbing the bags beneath his tired eyes that seem to be growing steadily with every passing day. “Stuck in the back of a shitty cart with a vampire and a child. And Sypha,” he adds, an afterthought; she’s grown on him in an odd, younger-sibling-that-gets-on-his-fucking-nerves sort of way, reminiscent of the bonds he shared with some of his closer family members before the Church had taken their lives from them. She’s not half as irritating as Alucard, for all her quips and jibes at Trevor’s expense.

“You’re no prize to travel with, either,” Alucard replies airily, and Trevor silently curses his stupid fucking vampire ears for granting him the ability to overhear practically _anything_. 

“I’m flattered to hear you think so highly of me.”

“I think _many_ things of you, Belmont,” the other man says, stepping past Trevor in the direction of Lyra’s cart with his pack slung over one shoulder, “‘highly’ is not one of them.”

Trevor huffs. “Bastard,” he murmurs.

“I heard that,” Alucard calls.

“Good.”

By the time the caravan sets out for the mountain trail from Koscia to Brasov, dawn’s rosy fingers are just beginning to touch the darkened sky, the rising sun ushering away the moon’s silvered glow and tinting the woods and snow and morning fog a serene mixture of muted blues and pinks and oranges. Alucard feigns tiredness and excuses himself, slipping beneath a thick sheathe of wagon-cover canvas in the back of the cart, burying the entirety of his body beneath it (much to the amusement of Trevor and Sypha and the puzzlement of Lyra), and curling up like a wolf in its winter den to protect himself from the sun’s rays. 

The day passes slowly. Crawls by. The rough wood of the cart digs into Trevor’s back, the sack of grain he tucks behind his head like a makeshift pillow gives his neck a crick, and, despite the stubborn winter winds that sting his skin and chap his lips, he feels uncomfortably warm laying in the back of the small cart, body pressed against Alucard’s through the canvas. He lies back, tries to keep his mind off the man next to him, stares at the wheel-tracks and hoofprints left in the snow as the caravan plods along, attempts (to no avail) to keen his ears to whatever hushed conversation is being had between Sypha and Lyra up front in the driver’s seat of the cart. For a moment, he tries to recall his recent tryst with the pretty blonde barmaid at The Hangman’s End, but finds he can’t recollect what her face looked like. His traitorous mind flickers back to Alucard whenever he tries to.

Fuck Alucard. Fuck him and his insufferable attitude and his face and that devilish grin he flashes sometimes when he knows he’s grinding Trevor’s gears that’s all sharp teeth and makes Trevor kind of _really_ want to – no. Don’t fuck Alucard. Fucking and Alucard don’t belong in the same sentence. ‘Alucard’ and ‘fuck’ are two words that should never even be together like _that_ in Trevor’s mind. This entire situation is almost as fucked up as Alucard is fuckable.

 _Fuck_.

Trevor rolls onto his side, as far away from Alucard as he can possibly force himself in the confined space, and recites a silent, habitual Hail Mary in his mind to let him find some semblance of sleep and empty his thoughts. 

\- 

As night falls the caravan comes to a steady stop, and Trevor finds himself being roused from his content slumber by Sypha smacking his cheek until he cracks his eyes open and bats her hand away.

“Wake up, Belmont. We are making dinner.” 

He sits up, rubs the sleep from his eyes, and glances to his side; the canvas beside him is folded neatly, Alucard gone from beneath it with the sun’s setting and the safety of shadow wrapping around them once more. Looking to the front of their cart, he finds the other man sitting in the driver’s seat beside Lyra, chatting contentedly with the young girl.

“Not hungry,” Trevor mumbles back. 

“You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“Too many people.” The thought of eating in the midst of the throng of Speakers all gathered around the campfire that’s been built in the center of their ring of wagons and horses is incredibly unappealing to him. 

“Really, Belmont,” Sypha replies, deadpan.

“Really, _Sypha_ ,” Trevor mimicks her tone and rolls over onto his other side, facing away from Sypha and pointedly ignoring her by closing his eyes once more.

“Fine. Starve, then.” 

He hears the crunch of snow beneath her boots as Sypha walks away, and is thankful to be left alone once more. The solace lasts all of five minutes, until another palm is slapping his cheek to wake him. “Christ, _what_ do you people want?” he snaps, rolling over and opening his eyes to find Alucard peering over the side of the cart at him.

“Sypha asked me to bring you this,” Alucard replies, unceremoniously dropping a hunk of bread and a bit of dried meat onto Trevor’s stomach. 

Trevor sighs, sits up and takes the bit of food into his hands. “Told her I wasn’t hungry,” he mutters. 

“Are you thirsty, perhaps?” 

There’s a soft _clunk_ as Alucard sets a pair of bottles down beside Trevor, both corked and filled with an amber liquid that Trevor doesn’t doubt is some sort of liquor. “Where’d you get those?” 

“I purchased them in Koscia before we left.”

“Why? Never seen you drink much.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d make it through the mountains without something to drink.”

Trevor takes one of the bottles and pops the cork from it; the scent of strong, biting liquor wafts from it, familiar and comforting. “Uncharacteristically kind of you.”

“Consider it a peace offering. Sypha said you seemed upset with me at the inn we stayed at several nights ago.”

“Did she say why?”

“No. I was hoping you might enlighten me.”

Trevor shakes his head. “It was nothing. Doesn’t matter, now.”

“Hm.” Alucard doesn’t press the matter. “Whatever I might have done, I hope this makes up for it.”

“This _more_ than does that.” He brings the bottle to his lips, takes a sip of liquor and enjoys the burn as it slides down his throat, smooth and saccharine. Trevor’s eyes flit from the second bottle to Alucard, then back again; after a moment’s contemplation, he reaches out and grabs it by the neck, extending the second decanter of liquor out to the other man. “Might as well sit and have a drink with me, then, since you’re here. Can’t finish it all on my own, anyhow.”

Alucard snorts dryly. “I doubt that,” he replies, but climbs into the cart and sits across from Trevor nonetheless, taking the proffered bottle in his hands. “I suppose I can have a bit.”

“Just a bit?”

“I try to keep myself from overindulging.”

“Why? You some sort of embarrassing drunk, or something?”

“Or something,” Alucard murmurs. 

“Let yourself go for a while. It’s not like there’s much else to do in the middle of these godforsaken mountains.”

Alucard stares at him, as if considering his words, and takes a slow drink. Trevor’s interested by the prospect of what a drunken Alucard might be like; he wonders if the other man’s demeanor becomes the complete opposite of his norm, if he’s loud and raucous or, perhaps, clingy. 

“How about we play a game?” Trevor propositions, curiosity getting the better of him.

A golden brow raises, and there’s a look of mild interest upon Alucard’s face. “What sort of game?”

“First to finish their bottle halfway is the winner.”

Alucard stares at him, unenthused. “A game for alcoholics.”

“Guilty as charged,” Trevor replies, offering a shrug of his shoulders.

The other man _hmm_ s in consideration, tapping his chin with a single finger as he thinks on it. “Fine,” he says after a long moment, wrapping his fingers firmly around the neck of his own bottle.

“Really?” Trevor replies, surprised; he’d fully expected a flat-out _no_. 

“On one condition.”

“And what’s that?”

“When we reach Brasov, you visit a bathhouse and have both yourself and your garments washed. The girl was right; you smell positively awful.”

Trevor gives Alucard an exasperated look, receiving nothing more than an unbothered stare in return. He _knows_ he hasn’t bathed in some time, but being told that he reeks by two different people in the same day wounds what little pride he has. Alucard’s little stipulation doesn’t deter him from his mission to see the half-vampire inebriated, however; Trevor gives a reluctant nod and mutters a curt, “Whatever.”

“Wonderful. On your mark, Belmont.”

To Trevor’s surprise, Alucard is a quick drinker, managing to beat him to the halfway mark of their bottles and then some. Perhaps it’s his innate speed, or perhaps, Trevor thinks, he’s so used to drinking _other_ substances, it simply carries over. 

Whatever the reason might be for his chugging expertise, Trevor finds that Alucard is an incredibly mood-killing drunk. The further the liquor spreads through his system, the more dour the other man becomes, slumping against the side of the cart and staring in Trevor’s direction with a distant, sorrowful look upon his face. The responses Trevor receives to his questions become increasingly dour and monosyllabic, and he eventually gives up altogether and simply watches Alucard thousand-yard-stare into the darkness beyond them, beginning to regret the decision to entice the half-vampire to drink past his self-imposed limits.

They spend a long period sitting together in silence, Trevor taking quick drinks of what’s left in his bottle and Alucard simply swirling the leftover liquor in his around, occasionally raising it to his lips and taking a small draw. Trevor’s gaze follows one of Alucard’s hands as it slips into his pocket, at one point, and retrieves a small, black ribbon that Trevor has never seen before. Alucard holds it with reverent care, lips pursed and brows drawn as he stares down at the fabric.

Trevor tries to hold his questions at bay, to let Alucard have his moment with whatever this object is to him, but _not_ being an invasive bastard has never been his strong suit. “What’s that?” he asks, sitting up and pointing a curious finger in the direction of the ribbon.

Alucard’s eyes flicker to his, then back to the ribbon. “It’s my mother’s. _Was_ ,” he corrects himself, words careful and quiet. “She used to tie her hair back with it. It’s… all I have left of her.”

He stares down at his hands, one wrapped around the neck of his bottle, the other clasping the thin, black scrap of silk in his hand. There’s a melancholic look upon his face. Distant. He runs his thumb across the fabric — up, down, up, down — in a slow, repetitive motion, and Trevor watches it, takes note of the spot in the dark ribbon that’s been rubbed raw to a thready gray, like a forlorn memory too often mulled over.

“What was she like?” Trevor finds himself asking. Pressing. Wanting to know more about Alucard, more about the woman who turned the heart of a fiend like Dracula and bore him a half-breed son. 

His fingers stop moving, and Alucard simply holds the ribbon in his palm, eyes transfixed upon it. A silent moment is drawn out between them; Trevor’s eyes trace Alucard’s features, his expression unreadable.

“She was beautiful,” Alucard finally murmurs. His fingers curl around the ribbon, clench into a fist. “And she was brilliant. Funny. Passionate and bright. She cared more for helping others than anyone I’ve ever met; even the most insignificant things held significance for her.” His brows draw together, a deep furrow between them. The corners of his lips tug downward into a frown. “She loved a world that did not love her. A world that did not _deserve_ her.”

Trevor nods. Understands, and doesn’t, at the same time. There’s a feeling to Alucard’s words – bitterness, and something else besides, something Trevor can’t quite name but feels deep within himself, as well. It resonates in his heart, in his bones; a sort of acrid sadness, a yearning for what’s been lost, for time and a future snatched away by the vindictive masses. Trevor feels it whenever he recalls his family, the false claims of heresy and black magic that took their lives from them, left him exiled and excommunicated. 

They’re the same, the two of them; bitter and wretched, with nothing left to live for but the warpath they’ve been set upon. The last sons of great families. 

“I’m sorry,” Trevor says. And he means it. 

Alucard’s eyes flicker to him. Golden eyes hold Trevor’s, a pensiveness to them. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says. “You were not one of those that took her from me.”

“I’m sorry that she was taken from you at all. She sounds like a wonderful woman.”

“She was.” His gaze drops. Alucard stares back down at his hands, back at the single scrap of memory he holds. “Do you ever question the point of this all, Belmont? Why we are even… bothering to fight?”

Trevor snorts. “I question it all the damn time.”

“I feel foolish for even entertaining the notion of allowing my father to sate his lust for revenge, but I cannot help myself, at times.”

“I’d say that makes you _human_ , not foolish.” 

Alucard chuckles, a bitter rasp. “The half of her within my blood is what considers letting all that she loved be ravaged, then?” His shoulders slump tiredly. “Humanity. Always so contradicting.”

“The trick is to not think on it _too_ hard,” Trevor replies. He swirls the liquor left within his bottle, puts it to his lips and takes a long draw. “Drinking helps. Clears the mind.”

“You’re drinking yourself to an early grave.”

Trevor shrugs. Takes another pointed sip. “Not like I have much left to live for, once this is all over. We’ll kill your father, or die trying. Then it’s back to the shit-hole towns, back to the taverns and the assholes that spurred this entire mess on. Back, for me, to drinking. Forgetting. Waiting to die, I s’pose. No family left, no legacy to carry on.”

“You truly believe your own future so grim?”

“Not much else I can see happening. I think some of us are just meant to be alone.” He drags a hand down his face, scrubbing the untended scruff upon his chin. “Christ. Look at us. Drinking and swapping sob stories. We’re just a pair of miserable bastards, aren’t we?”

His words garner a small smile from Alucard. “We are,” he murmurs his agreement. A silent moment draws out between them; Trevor polishes off the rest of what’s in his bottle, drinks the dregs down and leans against the side of the cart with warmth in his limbs, a lightness in his head, and a heavy heart. Alucard draws a knee to his chest and wraps an arm around it, still thumbing at the ribbon clasped in his hand.

Trevor is just beginning to slip into a placid state of almost-sleep when Alucard speaks up once more, voice quiet and steady. “You know, Belmont, I don’t believe you’re meant to be as alone as you seem to think yourself.” 

“And why’s that?”

“You have us,” Alucard replies. “Sypha and I. Fate has drawn us together.”

“Only until we kill your father.”

“We can make our own future beyond that. Together.”

He gazes at Alucard, a brow raised in surprise. It’s odd, seeing him like this. Walls down. Soul bared. “You’re a sad, sappy drunk, y’know that?” Trevor says. “Never would’ve expected it from you.”

“Now you understand why I like to, ah, _limit_ my alcohol intake.”

“Hm. Think I enjoy this side of you, though. Less… bastard-y.”

“Your knack for backhanded compliments never ceases to astound me.”

“What can I say? It’s a gift from God.”

Alucard tries to stifle a dry snort of laughter by raising his bottle to his lips and taking a drink from it. Trevor’s surprised to notice how little liquor is left inside; he’s never seen Alucard drink more than a small bit of any wine or ale at the taverns they’ve passed time in, and never anything _this_ hard. He wonders, idly, what is going on in that pretty blond head of his – what sorts of thoughts, beyond what he’s spoken to Trevor in their conversation, are plaguing him as they inch closer to his father’s castle, closer to killing the lone, mad member of his family. Closer to destroying what’s left of his legacy, as Trevor’s was destroyed. 

He sits and stares as the dark, gnarled branches of the winter-dead trees that encircle them, stewing with his thoughts. After a few moments’ passing silence, he glances to Alucard and watches the man struggle with his hair, long fingers carding through it, tugging through tangles and separating his locks into three quarters. He attempts to begin some semblance of a braid, and Trevor has to stop himself from chuckling when it comes out lumpy and uneven and Alucard shakes it out with a hissed curse and attempts to begin once more.

“C’mere,” Trevor finds himself saying, before he can truly think about what he’s doing. Golden eyes flit to find his, and Alucard stares at him with a quizzical look upon his face.

He curls his fingers inward in a _come hither_ motion. “Come on. Let me do it; you’ll just fuck it up if you try again.”

With a heaved sigh, Alucard moves closer to Trevor, pressed to his side with his face turned away from him. Trevor’s fingers card through long, golden locks with practiced ease, and he thanks Christ that he can blame _this_ on the alcohol, knowing that there’s no way in Hell he’d be caught dead doing this if they both weren’t very much not-sober. He sections off Alucard’s hair into three parts and begins to carefully braid them together, brows knit in concentration.

“Where, pray tell, did you learn how to braid hair, Belmont?”

“I had younger sisters. They loved to badger me into doing their hair for them.”

“That’s… oddly endearing,” Alucard replies. “Do you miss them?”

Trevor’s hands pause. He stares down at the braid he’s formed so far, strokes the pad of a thumb over the lock of hair beneath it. “Yes,” he murmurs, after a long moment of quiet consideration. “I always will.”

Alucard goes quiet, and Trevor quickly finishes off the braid. When the black ribbon is offered to him, he takes it, wrapping it around the ends of the half-vampire’s hair several times and neatly tying it off. “There. Looks better than whatever the fuck you were trying to do.”

“My mother always wore her hair like this.” Alucard runs his fingers thoughtfully over the braid that now trails down his shoulder. He glances up at Trevor. “Thank you, Belmont.”

Trevor scratches the back of his neck, uncomfortable with the odd tension between them and the turn their conversation took. As much as he’s loathe to betray his bloodline and befriend one of the fiends he’s sworn to hunt, the more time he spends with Alucard, the more humanity he sees in him. The more he sees _himself_ in him. _Humanity,_ Alucard’s voice echoes in his mind, _always so contradicting._ He wishes he weren’t tethered to the contradictions of humanity, to his desire to be near Alucard while, at the same time, wanting nothing to do with him. His inner conflicts infuriate him to no end, and Trevor wonders if, by the end of their journeying together, he’ll find some semblance of peace with them. 

He frowns. Shakes his head, tries to clear it of the tumultuous thoughts flitting through his mind. Wishes, as he always does, that he had more alcohol to placate his demons for the night.

The moon overhead peers down through the clouds, and Trevor peers up at it tiredly. “Think I’d best turn in,” he murmurs, sparing Alucard a single glance before grabbing one of the sacks of grain in the cart and bunching it up to make an uncomfortable pillow for himself. Rolling away from Alucard, away from the body still pressed up against his, he curls up onto his side, back to the other man and away from the source of his issues. 

“Sleep well, Belmont.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while, but here I am, back from the void with another chapter! thanks for sticking with me and thank you for all of your kind words and kudos! they mean the world to me.
> 
> as always, you can find me on [tumblr](http://kenway.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/starscryy) to talk anything Castlevania.

**Author's Note:**

>  _o felix culpa_ \- a series of unfortunate events that lead to a happier outcome.
> 
> this fic is going to be a series of connected oneshots. expect a rating change in the future as things progress!
> 
> as always, you can yell about castlevania to me on [tumblr](kenway.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/starscryy)


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